


One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Oh.

by calimaslinson



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alcohol Poisoning, Alcohol Related Psychosis, Alternate Universe, Drunk Brendon, Drunkenness, F/M, Partying, Sorry Not Sorry, Too Much Liquor, Vomiting, You're Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:40:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2892389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calimaslinson/pseuds/calimaslinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon Urie has been alone for five years, after his best friends Amber and Dallon were killed in a drunk driving accident, leaving him by himself. He reverted to what killed them as his way of coping - alcohol. It left him with alcohol related psychosis, and every night, he drinks until his best friends come back.</p><p>WARNING: THIS IS SO FUCKING TRIGGERING. AND MORBID. JUST SAYING.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Oh.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LetsPlayRayvin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetsPlayRayvin/gifts).



> Fuck you, Amber.

Brendon Boyd Urie hated himself. He hated everything he had become; the shell of the man he once was, before he lifted the dark stained bottle to his thin, chapped lips, and took a swig of his own death. But it tasted so good, it took him to another world with every sip, a world devoid of any pain for at least the shortest amount of time. Numb, numb was his favorite sensation, and he tried extremely hard to capture that lack of feeling every second of the day. Whether it was a shot of cheap vodka or a chug of stale beer, Brendon Boyd Urie never went longer than an hour in his sober state of mind. And as the years went by, the clock ticking away hours and days and weeks of missing them, he needed more and more alcohol to fill the ache in his gut. And that he did, increasing his liquor intake, until numb became an everyday thing for him. 

When he saw them, Amber and Dallon, he knew something was wrong. They'd been dead for exactly four years, eight months, two weeks, and five days - not that Brendon had been keeping track, of course. And when the doctor told him he had developed alcohol related psychosis, he wasn't surprised, in fact, he was the opposite. Overjoyed was the only word he could use to describe the slur of emotions that fogged his intoxicated brain whenever he had gotten to see them, had felt like they were truly there, because in his mind, they _were._

And Brendon had blamed himself for their deaths. He could've stopped it, he could've convinced them not to go to that goddamn party, or he could've gone _with_ them. Anything to keep them alive, to spare their lives from that stupid fucking drunk driver. Fuck, he could've saved them. He could've revealed his feelings to the woman he'd always loved, could've manned up and kissed her and never stopped because, fuck, that's all he'd ever wanted. And that haunted Brendon with every movement that he made.

When the doctor told him that he had to stop drinking to make the hallucinations go away, he did just the opposite. He couldn't lose them, couldn't let them go once more, now that he'd had them back. So he did what he did best - drank until he could hear the rasp of Dallon's voice ringing in his eardrums, until he could feel the way Amber's arms slipped around his waist and pulled him into an eternal warmth, until they were alive again. 

That became the entirety of Brendon Boyd Urie's life; shutting himself in and poisoning his mind with the fuzziness of a gin and tonic, or Jack Daniels, whatever his drink of the night happened to be. And tonight wasn't any different. Tonight marked the five year anniversary of their passing, which made it far harder than it should've been, made him drink far more than he had intended to. After endless shots of heavy liquor and beer bottles that piled into empty glass in the middle of the floor, his friends arrived, looking as happy and peachy as ever.

"Are you crying? Dude, don't cry. What's wrong?" Dallon, well, the hallucination of Dallon, had spoken to Brendon as he took a step closer across the vomit stained carpet. Dallon didn't know, he never knew. "Bren, answer me." 

"He never tells you what's wrong, Dallon, what makes you think he'll tell you now?" Amber retorted from the other side of the room, her feet shuffling quickly to plant herself onto the sofa next to the inebriated lump of Brendon, her hand placed on his shoulder. Her voice rang through the air with a sharp tone, one that Brendon had grown to love more than anything in the world. 

Brendon had managed to unwind his limbs to sit up on the couch, his head in his hands, body sliding closer to Amber in an instinctive way, as he always had. "M'fine." He gurgled through a belch, the potent tinge of vodka sliding over his tastebuds as he downed another glass. "Just emotional. You know me." He lied through his teeth, he'd never been emotional, but seeing as they were a figment of his imagination, maybe he could make them believe, just as he had done to himself.

"Maybe you should stop drinking.." Amber's voice came out hesitant, shaking with worry as she watched the love of her life continuously suck down beverage after beverage. Everyone knew it wasn't healthy for Brendon, and maybe Amber was part of Brendon's own subconscious telling him he needed to quit. 

But he was searching for the numb, hunting the end of the repetitive pangs of complete devastation that washed over his subconscious and intoxicated mind. He wasn't numb yet, he could still feel the tears slipping down his flushed cheeks, could hear the hiccups escaping his own lips, ones he wasn't even aware of. He could still feel the same desperation that hit him in the gut in the same way as it had done when he got the phone call that had changed everything.

"He's okay, he's used to drinking this much. Can't hurt him." Dallon rolled his eyes as he plopped down onto the armchair, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table in front of him as he watched on in awe at the two others.

The truth is, Brendon had never drank this much. He was usually able to stop when he couldn't feel anything anymore, but tonight had been different, as he felt, and felt, and fucking _felt_ and it stung like salt in an open wound. And he couldn't stand it, couldn't bear to experience one more second of the heart-wrenching sorrow that squeezed at his insides until he felt like he needed to scream.

When he brought the next beer up to his lips, he noticed his skin had a different pigment, a sort-of blue tinge to it, which had never happened before. Brendon figured it was part of the hallucinations, and brushed it off as "normal," or as close as normal could get for someone like him.

"He's fucking BLUE, Dallon, don't tell me it's okay." Amber hissed out through gritted teeth as she tried numerous times to whack the bottle out of Brendon's shaking palms, but to no avail, as his grip was far too strong for her to tear away his precious alcohol. "Bren, please, enough for tonight." She pleaded in a tone she'd never used before, and in his normal state of mind, Brendon would've realized she meant business, but he was too far gone to know any better.

Dallon stayed completely silent - a first for the man - as Brendon's grip suddenly failed on him, and he dropped the bottle of beer to the floor, watching it crack against the oak coffee table and burst into numerous pieces, shards collecting among the carpet as the liquid flowed out. His body trembled, shook with the completely chilling flood that wracked through his body. His teeth chattered, skin a light blue, and he gagged, heaved up his stomach contents, inhaling it all at the same time because, fuck, he couldn't control it. 

His friends jumped to his aid, smacking against his back to get him to throw up whatever he had to throw up, and Amber dialed 911 on her cell phone, but it was no use - what kind of ghost cell phone would have worked anyways? 

Brendon's eyes rolled into the back of his head, the entirety of his body flailing about in all directions in seizing movements unable to stop puking up the immense amounts of liquor that filled his stomach. Little gasps parted from his cracked lips between projectile vomiting that didn't seem to end. The shouts of his two best friends rang dully in his ears, his vision blurring over until there was nothing but mixed pigments and fuzzy figures that made one whole slur of colors. He wasn't afraid, no, because he was numb - he had finally reached his peak of nothingness. And then there was nothing. Darkness, black, devoid of anything, his breaths coming to a halt, short and labored heartbeats thrumming weakly in his chest. And then his friends were gone. It was just Brendon once more, for the last few seconds of his life, he was left, drowning in his own goddamn throw up, suffocating in his own death, surrounded by empty bottles and the bitterly freezing air. His eyes fluttered shut, coughing once more in a desperate attempt to suck in one last breath, before he was gone, too. And he had succumbed to what had killed what he loved most, just to keep them around. He couldn't let them go, and he didn't, up until his last dying moment.


End file.
